A/N: This came from the following tumblr prompt: how about a Whouffaldi prompt with some Twelve whump? As in a physical injury? ... How about one with Twelve getting injured (fairly seriously), and Clara has to doctor him a little bit? Like resetting a dislocated joint or stitching up a gash sort of thing and he's being a big baby about it.

The Cared-For and His Carer

He had tried to hide it from her, he really did, and he was pretty good at it too. She suspected something when she caught him leaning on a post while catching his breath and it was confirmed when they finally made it to the safety of the TARDIS. Once they were in the time vortex he collapsed into a nearby chair and hissed as he clutched his leg, eyes screwed shut and a snarl on his lips.

"You're hurt," she stated. Yes, it was stating the painfully obvious, but it was the only way to get him to admit it.

"It'll be fine in a tic—nothing my advanced genetic coding cannot fix."

"Liar; let me see."

"Clara, I—" The Doctor's protests were cut off by the ship humming in agreement. "Oh, come off it! I've piloted myself and others through much worse and you know it!"

"Yes, and she is very aware that you are one of the most stubborn beings in the universe," Clara added.

The ship made another smug noise and the Doctor had no choice but to let his human companion look at his wound. She knelt down next to him and gently peeked into the small rip high on his right trouser leg. Sure enough, there was a nasty-looking burn mark, which was oozing purple-pink and yellow-green.

"Christ—I've never seen a burn like that."

"The local's guns are particularly advanced when it comes to biochemical munitions," he explained. "It'll take me a couple days and a slight fever, but once that passes…"

"Doctor, that is complete bollocks and you know it," she frowned. "Come on; it's the medbay for you."

"…but Clara…"

"No buts—we're going," she ordered. Clara then hoisted the Doctor to his feet and had him lean on her while they made their way to the medbay. The TARDIS put it just inside the corridor for them, which was very good since he was whimpering and denying said whimpering the entire way there. Once deposited on an examination table, the Time Lord attempted to shy away as hands that were not his made for his belt.

"Clara, please, if it was that bad, I'd be regenerating," he argued.

"It may not be bad now, but I don't want you regenerating in a couple of days' time," she said. "Now off with those trousers if we're going to do anything about it."

He pouted at her, half a threat and half a plea, though she did not back down. After a couple minutes of glaring at one another, he relented and took off his trousers and boots both in a huff. He sat there in his question-mark pants and stocking feet, feeling very exposed and embarrassed, as Clara examined the burn further and poked it, eliciting a squeak-like noise from the Doctor.

"Okay, I'm going to clean this up, put some dressing on it, and we'll lay you down with some medicine and an order to rest," she decided.

"On whose orders?"

"Mine."

"You're not a doctor… or a nurse."

"No, but I do have consent from your ship, which to me is good as a family member's consent, because if the Time Council only gave you one extra regeneration and you die, then who is going to take care of the TARDIS? Certainly not the Master, and although I can pilot her well enough, that doesn't mean I'm a mechanic."

The Doctor scowled at her as she turned her back to get supplies. "I should sue you for medical malpractice."

"Except you won't."

"Why's that?"

"You're not American," she smirked.

He nodded at that, contemplative, not realizing that Clara was coming at him with a cotton swab full of rubbing alcohol until it was too late. A twinge of pain jolted up his leg and he jerked in surprise, cussing in Vulgar Gallifreyan that the TARDIS chose not to translate.

"Don't do that!" he shouted.

"It needs to be cleaned of this gunk before I put anything on it!" she fired back. "Do what you need to in order to deal with it, but you will deal with it!"

"Clara, I…!" he began, only to be distracted by a shiny tray appearing next to them. It had two small pills and a glass of water on it. He picked them up and looked at the ceiling. "Pain medicine?" The lights dimmed and returned to normal. "Fine." He sourly took the medicine and handed the glass to Clara. No sooner had he done so, he began to feel woozy and collapsed on the examination table, fast asleep.

"Quick-acting knock-out meds?" Clara laughed. The ship thrummed and the human thankfully continued her work.

It took a bit of effort to shift the Doctor all the way onto the table, but once that was done, Clara was able to get everything done with ease. She cleaned off the burn first, wiping away all the excess pus that was seeping out. Some ointment, gauze, sterile pad, and wrap-around bandages later and she found the wound to be in an acceptable state. She then double-checked the rest of his legs to make sure there wasn't another burn.

When that was over with, Clara decided that she was going to check the Doctor's upper body for anything he wasn't telling her. She sat him up and eased his coat, hoodie, jumper, and t-shirt off, discarding them on the floor along with his trousers and boots. There were little nicks and scratches all over his back, chest, and shoulders from what looked like previous adventures. His dusting of chest hair was disrupted by a long, jagged line of red that looked only half-healed, breaking her heart.

"You must be in so much pain," she murmured. Now it made sense, his refusal to be in anything less than his t-shirt while with her. She shed a couple tears and continued on, forcing herself to not dwell on the origins of the wounds. The TARDIS brought her some ointment that she rubbed into his back, popping and fizzing momentarily on some of the less-scabbed-over wounds. Her own skin tingled and muscles relaxed where the cream had touched her hands—she was going to need to ask him what it was next time he wasn't being a petulant child.

With that taken care of, she laid him back down and put ointment on the remaining cuts with the same results. When she was done, she left a kiss on his forehead before going to wash her hands, only for her heart to skip a beat when she turned back around, seeing that he was attempting to get up.

"Stay down!" she gasped, rushing over to him. He was on his feet by the time she reached him, and wobbled into her, still woozy from the medicine.

"I don't need your help," he said, slurring his words. "I'm perfectly fine."

"Let's go to bed then," she suggested.

"Now that I can do," he replied. The Doctor half-giggled in a medicated haze and kissed the side of Clara's head. "Mine or yours?"

"Mine," she said. With that, Clara helped the Doctor along as he hobbled with her over towards the bedroom the ship kept for her when adventures ran a bit long and she needed time to recover before being dropped back off in her timestream. She pulled back the bedding and laid him down in the soft sheets, gently pulling the covers over him.

"Aren't you coming?" he wondered. Apparently, he had not realized his lack of clothes yet, or he wouldn't have been giving her bedroom eyes with open arms.

"Give me a mo'—not dressed for the occasion," she teased. Full well knowing that he was watching, she undressed down to her knickers and pulled on a nightie that was sitting in the chest of drawers. Clara took her time brushing through her hair and taking off her jewelry, making the Doctor wait. With any luck, the medicine would have another go at his systems and he would pass out again, which would allow her to rest with ease. She sashayed towards the bed and climbed in, positioning herself so that she was propped up on an elbow and leaning down to kiss him.

Moaning into her mouth, the Doctor kissed her back enthusiastically. He brought a hand up and combed her hair with his fingers, letting his fingers lightly brush against her cheek as he extended his reach. Clara stroked his face and rumpled his hair, glad he was at least lucid enough for this. They kissed until he began to drift off again, mid-snog and completely blissful.

When she was certain he was sleeping again—softly snoring with his jaw slightly agape—she rolled him over onto his side and snugged herself up behind him. With her arms wrapped around his middle, she knew that there was no way he could escape without her knowing. His skin felt soft and slightly damp from the ointment, but his hair was still the same. She put her brow at the nape of his neck, smelling his hair; stardust, cinnamon bread, and time itself.

"You silly old man," she chided quietly. "You still need a carer, and my duty is to care." She kissed his neck and allowed sleep to take her as well, enjoying the calm that she knew was not going to last with him around.